


Random moments of hurt&comfort

by blackcherry16



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Broken Bones, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, FebuWhump2021, Gen, Hair Washing, Hell Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Schmoop, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29520402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackcherry16/pseuds/blackcherry16
Summary: A collection of short prompts for the #febuwhump2021 challenge. Second prompt: "Hey, hey, this is no time to sleep." Head injuries suck ass. Sam knows it. Dean does, too.
Kudos: 6





	1. Broken Bones

**Author's Note:**

> Summary: Dean is stuck using crutches. Sam is seeing things. Life used to be easier.
> 
> Pairing: none, it's gen
> 
> Wordcount: 3K
> 
> Setting: Coda to 7x03
> 
> Warnings: Self harm, alcohol abuse
> 
> Disclaimer: Just borrowing Kripke's characters.
> 
> Shotout: Special thank you to the lovely AntiquaDove for proof reading my story.

**Prompt: Broken Bones**

* * *

**Baby Steps**

There are a lot of things you notice when you're stuck using crutches for several days. Like, for example, how fucking annoying crutches are. Small, insignificant things where you used to think nothing of became a pain in the ass. Like the ability to get your own drinks and snacks and putting on a pair of trousers. Or taking a shower.

More than once, it has led to awkward and sometimes very excruciatingly uncomfortable situations that Dean would rather not have experienced. However, nothing relieves you of your delusions of dignity quite like a stay at the hospital.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn't do well with slowdowns. In fact, he was going batshit crazy. Dean is all about action, all about staying in-motion, being in control. Becoming a walking tripod however? Not so much.

He should have learned that patience is key, at least most of the time. But there was only so much spanish telenovelas and porn you can take while vegetating on the couch in the cabin. A shift of location didn't exactly do the trick either. Except they had room service - which was a bonus. He was a little too enthusiastic then, when he could count down the days he was able to ditch the crutches on one hand once and for all.

He should have known that something was about to happen. Because one moment he was blissfully breathing in the fresh, humid air outside, the next he was face down, pain searing up his right leg so badly that he blacked out.

Back to square one then.

Still, he could never have predicted two things: It was still very effective to go down a set of stairs on your bum even if you are pushing 40. And two, people are fucking noisy.

So, here he is wrestling with the store door for a goddamn minute. Fighting his mortal enemy number one, with stairs coming in close second.

It's a little old lady who puts an end to his defeating struggle and pushes the door open for him from the other side. There was dignity and there was pride, and on occasion the lines between these two get seriously fucking blurred. He fumbles with his crutches as he clumsily backs off, just in time to avoid getting his skull split in half by the door. Christ.

"Oh poor dear," she exclaims, not seeming to notice the fact that she nearly whacked him a second ago. Her eyes behind her glasses go all sympatic on him, gazing up and down until they linger on the shiny white cast of his busted limp which seems to define him now.

"What happened to you?" she asks, her voice quivering with honest concern.

Dean adjusts the crutches tightly against his sides, fingers stiffening around the hand grips as he tries to straighten his shoulders. "Car accident," Dean breaths, listless.

Which is true, in a way. Though generally, he tends to come up with more badass stories. Like cushioning a fall of a little girl from jumping off a burning balcony. Or bungee jumping from a high ass mountain slope. Or really crazy sex, if he's feeling especially creative. Sometimes, he states that he wants to challenge himself and just jazz with the crutches for the hell of it. The looks he receives are priceless more often than not.

Nobody needed to know that he was the one flung into the rear of a car in a lonely salvage yard by some black ooze monster that happened to transfer its head into a plant-eating-look-a-like with the preference of eating Winchesters. Because yeah, a-fucking-lame.

"I've been there before, a long time ago," she smiles at him, eyes lost in her memory for a second. "You're doing great."

Dean keeps quiet, tense-shoulders and furrowed brow, nodding at her with a tight-lipped smile.

She doesn't elaborate on her life story, which he's thankful for. Dean is in too much pain to listen. Instead, she pushes the door open wider and he slowly manages to brush past her, his eyes fixed on the ground before him, muttering his thanks. He feels her gaze on his back and all he wants to do is sink into the floor and disappear. Or run. But if you can only travel 20 feet per minute, there is no point in trying.

His tongue is peeking out the corner of his mouth, his hair on his neck already damp and sticking to the skin. He is like what? Only hopping from the car all the way to the deli and already feeling exhausted with weights and every one of his muscles screeching at him. Which is kind of pathetic. But walking became, for a fact, very tiring.

At least when this is all over he is going to have triceps of steel.

Right now, he should have been in the car. Cramming his foot up on the upholstery, eyes closed, blissfully waiting for the painkillers to kick in. But Sam was taking way too damn long.

Knowing his brother, he probably got lost in the pharmacy section, looking for some vitamins and some turbo bone-crafting shit. But the kid was also seeing things lately, pacing around the room muttering " _you're not real you're not real your're not real"_ and absently looking at him as if he is not the person he is supposed to be.

So, yeah, there is that.

Sam has been stuck in his own headspace. It was getting out of control and he couldn't think of a damn thing to stop it. Except for Sam's hand that was grounding him. Ironically, fighting fire with fire got a whole new meaning. But his palm was already so fucking raw looking like a butchered animal carcass, there is hardly any point in gauzing it up anymore. There is barely any skin left to heal, if it ever does.

But Dean can't help. Can't help but be there with his stupid crutches stuck on the goddamn bed and watch as Sam's soul shatters into millions of pieces.

He wishes, he could see what Sam does. He honest to god wishes he could fix him or trade places. But he can't and that's just the facts.

And he fucking hates it.

Dean licks his lips, fighting himself for only a moment, willing the blurry outlines to come back into focus.

The place is fucking crowded and smells of fresh coffee and ready-baked pastries. It's all making Dean strangely queasy.

He scans the store, searching for the familiar mop of brown hair towering over the shelves. And there he is, thank god, about ten feet ahead of him.

He breathes in quietly, leaning forward slightly and pushing the crutches in front of him, swinging his cast first, followed by the rest of his body. He shuffles, then slowly he takes another step, and another and another. He mentally makes a note to grab booze. Beer. Whiskey. Or Wine. He swears he is not going to be picky.

His shirt under his jacket is sticking to his skin by the time he passes the shelf of candys and crips and chocolate.

"Dude, please don't let me chug down-"

Dean's words stick in his throat as he sees Sam's stiff-ridden profile down the aisle in front of the vitamins, his expression just a little too tight, the catch of his breath just a little too shallow. Sam's fingers itch as a fine tremor runs through them. Dean watches them ever-so-slightly hovering over the gauze, ready to dig in.

Clearly, no one is noticing the subtle changes, the alarm bells ringing on high alert screeching throughout the whole goddamn space Sam was occupying.

He seems perfectly normal to anyone. Anyone but Dean.

"Sam," he says, and his own voice makes him flinch and tremble but he says it again, louder this time.

He takes a step towards his brother, trying to close the distance between them, but he doesn't get very far.

There is a solid thump of heavy-on-heavy, and the next thing he knows, he is sucking in air between his teeth as he shifts his weight onto the wrong leg, vision exploding into a hot white flash of pain. He makes a small noise in the back of his throat as he nearly fucking passes out.

Cans and bottles go flying and tumble to the floor, wild and ungraceful. His back awkwardly crashes into the wire rack, the metal digging painfully into his spine.

Dean's heart beats frantically against his ribcage, and he tightly squeezes his eyes shut as the room spins out from under his feet.

Eventually, Dean blinkes down into a set of crisp blue eyes.

Turns out, dogs and fucking kids don't give a rats shit about people with fucking sticks they cling to at all.

He feels nauseous, so very nauseous, and there is a slight chance that he is going to lose his lunch over this poor girl's head right here and now. Though, she might have brought it upon herself. Dean doesn't really want that, so he presses his lips shut and breathes heavily through his nose, swallowing furiously.

He bluntly stares back for a moment, his legs pulsing horribly underneath him. Her shocked eyes are probing him before her eyebrows quiver dangerously. He wants to say something, but his mind is somewhat blank and hazy. A pool of tears gather under her eyelashes and something sinks in his gut. But he doesn't get a chance to speak because as soon as he opens his mouth, she is off, a high pitched wail trailing behind her.

Fuck. He needs booze, lots of booze.

His right leg – god, please no, – threatens to betray him. Doesn't look like he'll be standing much longer. He mentally tries to brace himself before a warm hand settles under his elbow and he is staring right into Sam's face. Sam, who's studying him with a mixture of panic and concern, and just like that Dean doesn't go down.

Sam faces him only for a second longer before his gaze is skipping over his shoulder, staring fixedly on the abandoned corner. There isn't so much as a blink and Dean blindly twists his fingers into Sam's jacket, immediately digging his fingers into soft cotton until they clasp around flesh.

"Sammy," he repeats, more firmly.

Sam flinches, goddamn _flinches_ under his touch and Dean's heart stutters for a moment. His head then whips around, soft strands of hair grazing Dean's skin, frantic hazel eyes flickering towards him again, vacant and distant.

"Hey, it's not real. He is not real," Dean breathes, still feeling the tension radiating through his siblings body.

"This is real, okay? I'm real –" he breaks off, dragging his fingers over Sam's bandaged hand, squeezing slightly, then gingerly grazing his fingertips underneath Sam's palm before he shoots a mournful look down at the already red-spattered dressing. He gently presses into it, cursing loudly, and there is a hitch in Sam's breath and then he is looking at him. _Really_ looking at him, clear-eyed and focused. His eyes narrow to a point, and it's just Dean muttering a heartfelt ' _sorry, fuck,I'm sorry'_ and both of them breathing the same air, holding onto each other like they turned into goddamn crutches themselves.

Christ, what a complete fucking disaster they both are.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry." A distressed sounding voice came from somewhere behind the colloused 6'4 frame of his brother that is shielding him from view and this time both of them wince a little.

"Are you okay?"

Dean takes a moment to match the voice. Could be a clerk. Or a pesky bystander. No, it's the mum, Dean thinks. Of course.

He wishes it would be okay.

But it's not. Nothing is okay about any of this.

Dean doesn't answer, just leans hard onto Sam, and he's not even sure if his brother heard it before he basks her in foreign reassurance. "Yeah." Sam chokes out, kinda muffled, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He huffs a strangled laugh which makes Dean cringe. He's clearing his throat before he tries again. "He's good. We're good."

Sam shifts his grip until his hands find Dean's chest, holding him up with sheer force of will. He awkwardly leans down, his freakishly long monkey arms fishing for the crutch Dean wasn't even aware of losing. Dean gazes down at it obscurely, noticing the patch of blood smeared on the handle. He doesn't protest as Sam presses it into his hand, his fingers locking around it like a safety catch.

Only absently does he spot sight of the dark-haired blob that is peeking out behind the petite woman's frame. "C'mon sweetie. Go apologize to the young man, okay?" The mum gives her child an encouraging smile and a pat on the shoulder.

Tiny feet stomp in their direction, including a detour around scattered tuna and tomato cans, and Dean absently wonders if he can ever walk as swiftly and gracefully as she does. Probably not.

Her big blue eyes are mesmerised by Sam's bulky frame and the truth is, both of them must look fucking absurd. She reaches out hastily, her fingers spreading wide, before she very, very gently lays her tiny hand on his cast. Then she withdraws abruptly, as if burnt.

"Sorry," she whispers, and there's a quiver in her voice as she's latching onto her mother's side again.

"S'alright." Dean says hoarsely, trying to shift his weight from Sam onto the crutches. "Meant to come off anyway," he counters, attempting a smile. Meaning: In five weeks. Or four, if he is lucky. Which he is clearly not.

The young lady attempts to reach out for the bottled up tomates lying closely to her feet, but he cuts in with a swift "I got it." The fuck he does. He can't even bend his knee, let alone let go of his crutches.

But Sam does. Fuck, that would be typical; his little brother cleaning up his messes. Dean is glaring a hole into the tiles until he begins scooting the dropped goods closer to Sam, bringing the crutches to improved use.

Sam turns away from him, looking through the variety of canned soups but then hesitates, abandoning his swift movements mid air, frozen in place. Dean's heart leaps into his throat, white-knuckling the rubber padding as he watches Sam drift into space. He's about to step in when Sam goes for the can of noodle stew a few feet away and Dean blows out a relieved breath.

Sam needs gauze. He needs a whole goddamn aisle of it. But they also need a reconstructed, intact soul-lacking loopholes that don't make you believe you are dancing with the devil and a perfectly functioning I-can-kneel-without-popping-my-kneecaps. Granted, they need a whole goddamn new life.

"Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah?" Sam asks, eyebrows lifting a little.

"Grab some pie from the counter, will you?" He casually slips in a quickly added: "And booze. Any kind."

"Seriously?" Sam counters, brows arched.

Dean chuckles nervously. "Dunno, feel it would go nicely with pie."

It sounds amazingly stupid when he puts it like that.

His brother says something about alcohol, and prescription and heart attacks which is a little too exaggerated to be honest, but he only follows half of it, because as he attempts to move; deep, flaring pain radiates from his calf into his spine and he's busy fighting black spots from his vision. Absently, Dean wonders if Sam still thinks pie and cake are actually the same deal, because jesus christ.

"Dean. Hey," Sam tries to keep his voice low as he steps up next to him, fabric brushing against fabric, hand hovering under Dean's elbow prepared to catch his lousy ass once again.

He breathes, his jaw working around the pain, when he hopelessly catches a glimpse of the grid wielding basket that's swinging next to enormous, jeans-cladded legs. He must have missed Sam picking it up. Some more canned soup is nestled in there, nuts, new dressings. Also some funny looking capsules. Calcium, probably.

No soul. No leg, though. What a shame.

"Make it apple or cherry," he presses and then after a moment lingering a bit longer, the solid presence next to him is gone.

" _Pie_ , not cake," he hollars across the aisle since there was no way he could keep up with the Sasquatch-strides, uttering the last word out with a bitter tinge of disgust.

Sam looks at him from across the hallway, making a face, and takes the opportunity to flip him off.

A teenage boy gapes at Dean with his wide eyes, almost breaking his neck with how fast he spins it around, pretending his fascinating interest in front of the mopping cloths. Out of the corner of his eyes he can see a young woman doing the same.

All right then.

Dean huffs, making a halfhearted attempt to straighten his posture before he figures, to hell with it and just leans harder into the crutches. He is not planning to nose-dive again, especially not when he was stuck in a space with a neat crowd of spectators.

Dean forces his body into motion, doesn't falter when he passes the teen still overly interested staring at the cleaning products, his steps measured, but no less painful. He thinks he's being subtle when he positions himself next to the entrance to have a clean view all the way down the counter, cautiously watching the familiar figure waiting in line.

Dean can almost remember when there was a time when he didn't have to worry about hell-bent memories, about altered perceptions of reality or soul-eating angels, but not really.

But apparently Sam neon sign "Look, there is a devil on my shoulder" is out of commission when he lays down the purchases, ditching hells company a moment longer. Which is good, really.

Maybe they could do it until they eventually will be okay.

They'll make it work. He'll make sure of it.

One foot in front of the other.

Baby steps.


	2. "Hey, hey, this is no time to sleep."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Head injuries suck ass. Sam knows it. Dean does, too.
> 
> Pairing: none, it's gen
> 
> Wordcount: 2K
> 
> Setting: Season 11
> 
> Disclaimer: Just borrowing Kripke's characters.
> 
> Shotout: Special thank you to the amazing The Tinglenator for correcting my story! Huge thank you your way!

**Prompt: "Hey, hey, this is no time to sleep."**

* * *

**No More Tears**

Sam breathed in deeply, biting his lip as he averted his eyes and fixed them on the yellow, sickening triangle that was forming on the tile floors opposite to him. It was easier on his eyes to sit in semi-darkness, but the pounding, heated throbbing of his head never lessened. He ground his teeth together hard enough to pull a muscle, if only in an effort to stop the pain from overpowering his senses completely.

It was almost enough to make Sam spill his guts out, but not quite.

And that was enough of a win right now.

There was a thud from somewhere in the other room, followed by a half-muffled curse- then, silence. Sam tried to get his hands out from under his curled-up legs with all the grace and strength of a newborn foal, and instead of standing up, he found the ground rocking below him. His only attempt at moving sent pain exploding throughout every inch of his brain; his equilibrium had been downright fucked. He resigned himself to staying seated, his eyes listlessly roaming the room, until a familiar profile came into view.

"Sam, hey," Dean said roughly, the strain in his tone byling how worried he was. "What the hell?"

Faster than what seemed possible, a palm splayed out on his chest and he was gently forced backwards against the cold, cracked bathroom tiles. His breath hitched on contact, and he immediately began sifting through the haziness of his mind, trying to form coherent thoughts.

There is only one word that manages to make it past his lips. "Dean."

"Right here, man," Dean said, his hand resting on Sam's heaving chest for a moment longer. It felt like the only thing grounding him right now, but it was comforting enough that his tense muscles relaxed under the reassuring weight. Dizziness threatened to overwhelm him again when he glanced up at his sibling's face, looming over him, constantly fading in and out of focus.

Sam lazily blinked owlish eyes at him.

"S'it just the head?" Dean rumbled, with a hint of urgency.

Sam nodded as much as he dared. It might have come out to an inch, at most. His brain felt like it wanted desperately to crawl out of his skull, and he had to keep his mouth shut from the same feeling in his stomach, because there was no guarantee he wouldn't puke all over Dean. Right. The fuck. Now.

His heartbeat was throbbing so loudly in his ears that, for a moment, it was all he could hear while Dean crouched down low beside him, their knees bumping into each other through the lack of space in the cheap bathroom. The sweet scent of gunpowder came along with Dean as he leaned in close; Dean, with his usual style of fresh, dry cologne. Underneath it all was a faint and familiar leather smell.

Carefully, Dean started searching his way over his head, fingertips gingerly working through his sweat-dampened hair. Sam hissed a vague protest when they drifted over the back of his scalp. "Sorry, kiddo, sorry," his brother whispered, breathing into the crown of his hair.

Sam was trying to hold still as the pain continued pulsating through him, searing and alive.

"Close your eyes," Dean prompted, voice low and steady.

It was quietly irritating because the world was dark anyway, and he could only vaguely see certain blurry shapes, one of which happened to be his brother - thank God- while the rest might be any number of things. He finally obliged and slid his eyes shut, feeling the cold border of the bath bite into his neck as he inched farther over the tub. Dean's shoulder brushed his upper arm then as he half kneeled, half leaned over the tub.

A harsh, white noise filled the air, but then the pressure decreased.

Sam was hit with an unexpected rush of tenderness as his brother gently smoothed back his long hair, where it had been stuck to his forehead. It was followed up by a barely audible, "Okay, careful now."

It shouldn't have been surprising when lukewarm water hit the back of his head, wetting the sweat-soaked and blood-coated strands of his hair, but he still had to hold back a gasp.

"Easy, easy," Dean soothed him, brushing one hand through his hair.

Sam didn't have to see to know that the drain swirled with pink-tinged water almost instantly, soon to be sickly discoloured by ash and gravel. Maybe a chunk of his scalp went down with all that.

It certainly felt like it.

Images flashed through his head in a dizzying sensation. Something began to slip down along his ear, slowly, tracing his neck and soaking the hem of his collar. For a second, he was convinced he's bleeding out on this grimey old bathroom floor and there was nothing he could do but let it happen.

His brother cursed loudly, then the water got shut off. A _drip drip drip_ loudly echoing in the room.

"Hold on."

Sam wasn't sure how much time had passed- just that he spent it wishing his brother would come back faster. But then the hand rematerialized, now cupping the back of his head, slowly tugging him upward before something cosy and soft draped around his shoulders. His neck was tucked in tightly, some of the towel having made it up to the front to rest on his chest. Then Dean slowly lowered him back against the rim.

The pipes began to moan again before spitting out their contents. There were splashes of water, a high squeak of the faucet. It all dulled the hum in his ears.

Absently, Sam felt his brother's hand ghost over his face before it settled on his forehead, just above the hairline, warm and steady.

"This okay?" Dean's voice was in his ear, and he felt the tickling exhale of breath against his skin while another round of hot water trailed over his scalp, drenching his strands of brown hair into a black tangled mess.

"Yeah," he whispered and then swallowed thickly, doing his best to focus on Dean's voice.

"Good, that's good," Dean mumbled, as if just to put out some comforting words.

His brother was quiet for a moment as he directed the spray around his hairline, chuckling a little.

"You know what, Sammy?" he asked cheerily, his light tone at odds with the tension in his body, "Your shiny princess hair will be flawless for once."

Sam wanted to protest, wanted to say "It's Sam", but his lips were numb, and the moan that was building at the back of his throat rolled off his tongue before he could stop it.

The steam eventually thickened, moistening the air surrounding them. There was relief in the bone-deep ache as it settled over him like a blanket, fingers working through his hair, his mind fading into dullness and the foggy pain-free illusion of rest.

The voice slowly droned out.

It was easy to let himself fall.

Distantly, he felt calloused hands touching his face, cupping his cheeks and jaw and Sam squinted through heavy eyelashes, struggling to make sense of the blur that weaved in front of him. There were lips moving over bright teeth, caked in darkness. Blood? Blood. Has to be. Damnit.

His eyelids fluttered closed again, dragged down by an undefiable weight.

The words barely reached him, sounding muffled and far away as if underwater. "Hey, hey, this is no time to sleep." A light tap on his skin.

"Sammy, hey, c'mon, look at me," the voice urged, tight and higher now, just enough for Sam's eyes to slowly trace back to it. A few good, tense seconds passed before his wandering gaze finally found those bright green eyes that were frantically searching for his. "That's my boy," the voice praised, a hand clasping his jaw one more time.

Dean. Of course it was Dean.

Sam continued to stare at his brother's face, twisted in a tight grimace of worry and uneasiness. He looked tired. And his skin- his skin was tight in contrast to the rest of the dark room. It's only then that he notices the deep gash above the eyebrow, leaving an ugly dark trail down his temple and neck.

Sam clumsy tried to reach out, meaning to find Dean's face. But it was harder than he expected, his limp feeling oddly disconnected from his body, and fuck, since when did his arm weigh that much? His uncoordinated fingers uselessly grasped empty air until they eventually latched onto the hem of his brother's flannel shirt.

"Dean-" he choked out, twisting the fabric tightly in between his fingers.

Dean loosened his hold on Sam's jaw, and covered the hands clinging to his shirt, squeezing slightly. He cleared his throat, a ghost of a smile flickering across his face. Sam noticed that the matching wrinkles were missing. "I'm good, I'm good."

The room seemed to be tilting to one side, doing a sudden flip over. Sam meant to push himself away, he really did. But it was like his energy had been completely drained, a raw sort of exhaustion slowing his movements into a haze. He barely had time to tilt his head as his stomach twisted, feeling hot bile burning his throat, probably fucking suffacating- but then strong hands were turning him forward, holding him in place.

" _Shit_." Dean muttered next to him, trying to shift his weight as Sam heaved between a pile of tangled limbs. He was pretty certain that the titles didn't get the full fit.

"Don't worry," was all he heard over the rush of blood in his ears, as he allowed himself to adjust to the change in positions. His eyes squeezed shut with a tight intensity as his head hung low, a wet strand of hair loosely hovering in front of his face.

Water was slowly trailing down his cheeks- though it might as well have been tears.

"Just breathe," Dean rambled into the darkness, repeating soothing nonsense. His hands warm and heavy on his shoulder. "You're okay, just breathe."

Sam's breath came in harsh pants as he worked himself through the pain, his heartbeat reverberating through his whole body. He felt more light-headed with every deep breath he laboured to drag in. Barely moving, his purposeless fingers remained fastened in the fold of Dean's shirt, awkwardly trapped between them.

But Dean didn't pull away, and Sam simply held on.

Will always hold on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a lot for reading! Hope you enjoyed it. (: Would be really happy to know what you think about it. Next up: Poisoning.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed it. Next prompt: "Hey, hey, this is no time to sleep."


End file.
